Thoughtless and Without A Prayer

"The definition of evil is the absence of empathy."

—Leon Golsensohn, defendants' psychiatrist at the Nuremberg trials

***

Nearly a hundred and sixty years ago, on the eastern plains of Colorado, a settlement of peaceful people from the Cheyenne and Arapaho tribes were attacked at dawn by a contingent of 700 US Army soldiers.

A member of that force, Captain Silas Soule, refused to engage in the slaughter that followed, instead choosing to stand down and record what he saw.

In letters to his family, Soule said,

"I was present at a Massacre of three hundred Indians, mostly women and children. It was a horrable scene and I would not let my Company fire. They were friendly and some of our soldiers were in their Camp at the time trading. It looked too hard for me to see little Children on their knees begging for their lives, have their brains beat out like dogs. It was a Regament of 100 days men who accomplished the noble deed. Some of the Indians fought when they saw no chance of escape and killed twelve and wounded forty of our men." — Dec. 18, 1864

"I spent New Year’s day on the battle ground counting dead Indians. There were not as many killed as was reported. There was not more than one hundred and thirty killed, but most of them were women and children and all of them scalped. I hope the authorities at Washington will investigate the killing of those Indians. I think they will be apt to hoist some of our high officials. I would not fire on the Indians with my Co. and the Col. said he would have me cashiered, but he is out of the service before me and I think I stand better than he does in regard to his great Indian fight." — Jan. 8, 1865

Over time, the historical record of the dead in what came to be known as the Sand Creek Massacre was revised upward to 230.

History also shows that the massacre ignited warfare between the US government and native tribes resisting the seizure of their lands. The genocide that ensued, often on the premise that Native Americans were not civilized or even fully human, lasted 25 years, ending with another slaughter by the US Army at Wounded Knee, South Dakota.

***

In the months leading up to the 2022 midterm elections, seeking to generate support from a passionately regressive base of voters, Republican politicians and their promoters in the media demonized the LGBTQIA2S+ community. 

If you wonder in good faith about that acronym, it stands for lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender / gender expansive, queer and/or questioning, intersex, asexual, and two-spirit.

If you wonder in good faith what *that* means, good for you. You may be on your way toward understanding—they're just people who are different than you. People who want to be accepted for who they are, or in lieu of that, not be killed for simply existing.

Unfortunately, that ask is too much for many on the right, who see "different" as an opportunity—to fabricate a threat that can be attacked via legislation, discrimination, and violence.

From the Washington Post:

"Right-wing politicians and preachers have openly called for killing LGBTQ people. On a conservative talk show, Mark Burns, a Donald Trump-allied congressional candidate from South Carolina, called 'LGBT, transgender grooming' a national security threat and proposed using treason laws as the basis for 'executing' parents and teachers who advocate for LGBTQ rights. In Texas, a pastor railed against Pride month and said LGBTQ people 'should be lined up against the wall and shot in the back of the head.'”

"Extremism researchers have long warned of an escalating risk as hard-right Republicans and militant groups portray LGBTQ people as “groomers” targeting children, along with other baseless smears. Now, provocateurs are acting on those messages with rising hate and violence targeting LGBTQ communities."

***

Last weekend, another young, white male with an AR-15 walked into Club Q, a Colorado Springs bar whose patrons are predominantly LGBTQ. When the shooting stopped, 5 people were dead and 25 were wounded—many still in critical condition.

***

The link between massacres in America crosses generations. It began long before Sand Creek and continued implacably up to this very moment. And while the targets of that violence have varied by race, religion, gender, economic status, et al—what doesn't change is how often the crimes are committed by, or on behalf of white, male, self-proclaimed Christians.

Less than 48 hours after the Club Q shooting, in the last 2022 race for the US Senate, the Republican candidate from Georgia was still inciting hatred against the LGBTQ community. Herschel Walker:

• Suggested trans kids wouldn't go to heaven because "Jesus wouldn't recognize them"
• Stood with a GOP legislator who called gay people "filth" and later said straight people were superior to gay people
• Appeared in an ad with a former collegiate swimmer who falsely complained she had to compete against a "biological male"

Even after being embarrassed in the recent elections, the GOP continues to double down on this brand of malice, which time and again has been shown to incite violence in our gun-drunk society. 

"Thoughts and prayers" they type after every killing, unaware or uncaring that those words are now a punchline that reminds us who they are—the party of guns and providing fresh targets to fire them at.

In their America no sanctuary is holy, no shelter is safe, and no atrocity is too inhumane. There is no common ground, nor compromise, with that.

Run Talk

Wake me up inside

Wake me up inside
Call my name and save me from the dark
Bid my blood to run
Before I come undone
Save me 

Save me from the nothing I've become

Bring me to life

—Amy Lee, Ben Moody, David Hodges

***

I was a runner, not that long ago.

For several years, in fact, I ran quite often, and occasionally quite a ways.

Now, I occasionally talk about running...but the actual running itself? The part where I put on the shorts and shoes and one foot in front of the other? Not so much.

There's not a thing wrong with me physically—if my daily FarmFit™ routine is any indication.

Between-the-ears, though, the gears are making an unwelcome noise.

Where once I was anxious to get out and run, now the idea of running makes me anxious.

Where running once was my therapy, now it seems it'll take therapy to get me running again.
***
What I think about when I think about running: {feeling of dread}

What I think about when I think about not running: {dreadful fomo}
***

Backstory:

In 2019 I ran two ultramarathons. In between those, I was also regularly getting to the gym—because yay, cross-training!

Then 2020 happened and, of course, the world went upside down. Gyms closed, races were cancelled, and, oh yeah, people died. Lots and lots of people died.

 

For a while, when little was known about the etiology of COVID-19, group photos of smiling runners were replaced with photos of empty trails. Meet-ups to run with anyone other than the family dog were rare, involving separate cars, masking, and keeping a cautious distance.

It didn't take long, though, for many people to get bored with doing the right thing. 

At a time when modes of covid transmission were still being studied and vaccines were months away and more than a thousand Americans were dying of covid every day—countless people just decided it was time to "return to normal".

To my comical surprise, many in the trail running/racing community were among them. 

***
Up to that moment, my experience in the community had convinced me trail runners were different from most people (aside from how we liked to run a long time in often adverse conditions). I thought our little subculture was an equable bastion of empathy and shared responsibility and mutual support.

Sitting here now, I’m embarrassed by how naive I was. I mean, I’m OLD—I’ve lived a while and seen some things and REALLY SHOULD'VE KNOWN BETTER.

In my defense, I wanted to believe such a community existed, and that I could be a part of it. So, I believed, eagerly and joyfully.

I was wrong, of course. 

Example: Some race directors (bless them) at that time pivoted to safe alternatives to large gatherings of runners, sponsoring virtual races and events.

Other RDs (and their customers) decided their events were necessary—more necessary, even, than the health of participants, communities, and front line healthcare workers already overrun with patients. So, the moment it was allowed, their covid-safe* events were back on. 

The difference between those responses became a thing on trail running social media. The hostility was prolific and loud and months-long. People showed who they were in ways that might've made one wonder how there was ever a community in the first place.

Narrator: "There wasn't. There was only a small group of people who enjoyed the same hobby, co-existing until they were pressure-tested by extraordinary circumstances."

***

I'm no longer angry at people who basically declared that [their activity here] was more important than other people's wellbeing/health/life. Even though covid is still with us, fueled by mutations of the coronavirus that might not have evolved if some of our fellow humans had worn a mask and gotten vaccinated and not contracted covid at superspreader events and forwarded it on to innocent people whose riskiest behavior at the time was going to the grocery store.

Nope. Not angry at all.

I am cranky, though, about how I reacted to those people—letting them get into my head, undermine my trust that people will do the right thing, and (waaaay downstream) negatively impact my desire and ability to run. 

That part is very disappointing.

***

It's been a year since I logged any meaningful miles.

And by meaningful I mean, "a cheerful embrace of an eccentric activity that once gave me peace of mind."

I continue to accessorize for the long run (or any run), on the theory that the next purchase will be the one that puts the wind back in my sails. It hasn't worked so far, but as noted above, I want to believe.

And so, a fancy GPS watch counts the steps I take carrying buckets of water around the farm.

A new hydration pack sits in its shipping envelope on the dresser.

Near-new trail shoes languish in the closet, along with two pairs of road shoes, still in the box. New running shorts wait in a dresser drawer, and a barely used waterproof running jacket hangs in the utility room.

When the time comes, I will be very geared up.

With each passing day, though, I wonder if that time has passed me by.

***

Accomplished runner-friend:

“I should probably just retire from ultra running. I’ve had my moment.”

[later] “Oh, hey,

@ultrasignup

.”

Supportive friend: "As an ultra running retiree, let me tell you this: we're all addicts—and that urge will be with you for the rest of your life."

***

*Narrator: "The events were not covid-safe."

Win Some Lewes Some

"This painting doesn't belong here!"

Mama pajama rolled out of bed
And she ran to the police station
When the papa found out he began to shout
And he started the investigation

It's against the law
It was against the law
What the mama saw
It was against the law

—Paul Simon
***
"The above-pictured individual was involved in the theft of artwork from the art exhibit at the Lewes Library on 08/15/2022 between the hours of 11 a.m. and 12 p.m.

"LPD is requesting the public’s assistance in identifying this person.

"If you recognize the individual or have any information on the incident, please contact the Lewes Police Department at (302) 645-6264."
***
I have so many questions.

First, didn’t Wilford Brimley ascend to the great spaceship in the sky, never to be seen again? Or am I mis-remembering the {spoiler alert} ending of Cocoon?

 

Second, note that the allegedly stolen painting is affixed with a white ribbon. According to the Danish System of Recognition (in use at state fair competitions across the US), a white ribbon signifies “…entries that do not meet average standard. The level of accomplishment is less than expected. Extremely poor workmanship or little thought is given to the exhibit.” 

Why would any competent thief steal an "extremely poor" painting…UNLESS it wasn’t really poor at all—and in fact concealed an original and heretofore unknown work of Van Gogh??

 

It's possible.

 

It’s also possible that the thief is ackshually the artist, incensed by what he considered to be thick-witted cloddishness on the part of the judges.

 

It’s ALSO possible the thief is Van Gogh himself, reclaiming that which was stolen from him lo these many moons ago. Likely? No! But possible!

 

Third: The town of Lewes (lewes.com) prides itself on being “…a walking town. Within a half-square mile you will find the Historic district, museums, many Inns, Bed & Breakfasts, fine restaurants, and a variety of ...”

 

That’s it…that’s all we learn from the lewes.com preview because its web site “took too long to load” and currently “cannot be reached”. Coincidence?

 

Is the thief simply a good samaritan, taking unappreciated artwork out for a breath of fresh air in the self-proclaimed “walking town”?

 

Is the artwork now part of an exhibit in one of the nearby musea? WE DON'T KNOW!

 

Maybe there's a clue back at lewes.com, where one *will* find “…the Historic district, museums, many Inns, Bed & Breakfasts, fine restaurants, and a variety of ...” A variety of what? Who can say?? But let's agree that any of those venues could benefit from surreptitiously acquiring an unknown Van Gogh!

 

Another look at the Lewes PD wanted poster reminds us that the painting was taken from the Lewes Library. In the security camera image, the thief appears to be of an era when art knew its place: paintings in musea, by god, and books in libraries—and never the twain shall meet. This remained true until Twain thought it would be great fun to sit for a very young Salvador Dalí, and chaos was unleashed on the world.

 

The point being, perhaps the image merely captured the “thief” in the process of moving the painting to a museum, thereby righting what he deemed a great wrong. In which case he’s not a criminal, but rather, a god damn hero.

"Dudes! If you see a stolen painting, like, 
let me know! Righteous!"

The Lewes PD may have thoughts on that—perhaps one of these people are investigating as we speak:

"Currently, our department is staffed with 13 State Certified sworn police officers, 1 civilian Administrative Assistant, 6 Parking Enforcement Officers and 10 Lifeguards."

 

Not Our Cows, Still Our Rodeo

"I haven't had my coffee yet!!"

The good news: I got my exercise today

The other news: Not the way I planned

***

Back in May we experienced a cattle incursion that had me running around like a demented dude rancher. 

This morning, that story continued.

The short version: we’re having hog fencing installed around our seven acres. One stretch of the old fence—between our property and that of Neighbor 1—was taken down yesterday. And for the lack of one 12' gate, cows belonging to Neighbor 2 found their way over to Neighbor 1’s property.

This was un-neighborly for a few reasons, not the least of which is that cows like to munch on and otherwise demolish small trees like the ones Neighbor 1 has been working for months to grow.

Looking up from my coffee to see half a dozen cattle in a place they didn't belong (and immediately seeing why) was a bigger jolt than any caffeine hit.

I ran out the door and set about herding the cows off Neighbor 1's land. Neighbor 1, meanwhile, called Neighbor 2, who sent his grandson out on an ATV.

Pertinent detail: one of the cows (whom we call Poppy) is blind. Left to her own pace and direction, she's independent and sweet as can be. Herding her (and her calf) is another matter entirely. We did *not* want Poppy to panic and, say, go tumbling into a nearby gully.

Actor portrayal.
Not an actual cow.

Even with Neighbor Grandson 1 on the ATV and me on foot, it took an hour—running up and down hills, backtracking, cajoling, and corralling—to get everyone back where they belonged.

Did I sweat buckets in that time? Yes, yes I did.

***

Denouement: Poppy did *not* take a tumble into the gully (nor did anyone else).

We rigged up a temporary gate, confirming the general security of Neighbor 1's trees—which should be cow-safe until Monday at least, at which time the new stretch of fence will be complete.

Farm-Fit Note: Herding cows on foot is an excellent workout. I recommend you incorporate it into your regular fitness routine at your earliest convenience.

Something's Stinky

I wear spyware

The internet knows what deodorant I'm wearing.

And I'd like to know how.

Backstory:

We're having some work done at our house, and the master bath is temporarily offline.

So today, of necessity, I showered in the guest bathroom.

After my shower I discovered there was no deodorant in my shaving kit, so I looked in the medicine cabinet to see if there was any there.

Voila! Our daughter, bless her, had stashed an assortment of products in the cabinet for when she comes to visit—including some deodorant.

THE DEODORANT FEATURED IN THIS AD, which showed up atop my FB feed 15 minutes later.

To be crystal clear, until 30 minutes ago I was unaware of this product's existence. There was no reason for the Native deodorant people to target me out of the blue with an ad for their product, just as they had no way of knowing that I JUST USED THEIR PRODUCT.

And yet, here we are.

My loving wife insists that this digital/real world interaction was a coincidence, but I think when it comes to data and ginormous social media platforms, there are no coincidences.

Additional data:

My iPhone 11 was on the counter in the bathroom

I neither picked up nor used my phone while in the bathroom

I don't believe the nice people at Native Co. put nanobots in their products, so...

WHY IS THIS AD SUDDENLY IN MY FB FEED??

Fortunately there are lots of articles (online, of course) about "coincidences" like the one I'm describing. Social media marketing algorithms compile and analyze massive amounts of our online data every second of every day. These companies then use that data to serve up ads on our devices that make it seem like they're actively watching our every move.

The fact that most of us aren't interesting enough to surveil is irrelevant—we're using technology, we've agreed to byzantine terms of service, and therefore detailed information about all of us is endlessly pouring into the world to be scooped up and dissected.

Full disclosure:

I was already aware of how corporations use our personal data to achieve their nefarious sales goals. Even so, the degree of specificity required to amble up and say, "HI HOPE YOU'RE ENJOYING OUR PRODUCT WHICH YOU JUST USED BUY MORE NOW!!!" is unnerving.

I don't like it one bit.

But you know, I do like this Native 100% plastic-free deodorant! It smells nice, it's aluminum-free, and its packaging is recyclable!

Also, if you read this far, thank you and enjoy seeing ads from some random product which I may have recently researched and you may have tried for the first time.

Just remember...

IT'S NOT A COINCIDENCE AND YOU'RE NOT CRAZY*

———

*Well, you may be crazy, but not about this

Time, Time Again

We were sad, but not surprised, to learn of Melody's passing.

The arc of her decline was plain to see, one year to the next, even as she continued tending to the health of others. 

She was a nurse, a long-term care provider, and a smoker. As a patient she'd have been lucky to have someone like her taking care of her.

But there was a disconnect somewhere between the patient and the caring clinician.

Melody also managed a little beach house that we were lucky enough to stay at several times. You could tell she cared about that, too. Ahead of every visit we'd text her to see if there was an opening for the time we had available. She'd reply almost immediately, and arrangements would be made.

She would show up not long after we arrived to make sure we had what we needed, and told us to call if we thought of anything else. Did she say the same thing to every other guest who came to the house? I have no doubt about it.

A year or two before covid, we began exploring a different island, and a gap opened up between our visits. In a blink four and a half years went by, and in that time Melody reached the end of her journey.

***

There was work being done on the house when we walked up to it last week. New windows, doors, decking, siding—what you'd expect for a house right on the beach on the windward side of an island in the middle of an ocean.

The owner's son-in-law came out to greet the strangers gawking from the edge of the property. "Can I help you?" he said, not unkindly. We responded with a deluge of words about the times we spent at the house, the wonderful memories, and our hope to stay there again sometime.

Then we asked about Melody.

***

There's been so much change and death and dissonance in the past two and a half years. Even the things that are the same are no longer the same. We know this and have come to expect it—so, the news about Melody shouldn't have come as a surprise at all. And yet it was still a gut punch.

We were hoping, I suppose, for the tiniest bit of stability in this new and dislocated world. Or maybe we're just trying to grab onto the runaway freight train of time as it roars past us.

The desire to stay there, amidst the seagrass in front of that house, was powerful. The thread between "then" and "now" stretched thinner and thinner as we walked away, like the last glint of light at sunset. 

Sitting here tonight, though, I can still feel it. Delicate, ethereal—but unbroken.

***

Mahalo, Melody, and bon voyage. Sending you kind aloha for your walk on the beach

Farm Rules

These are excellent guidelines

We don't have a lot of rules here on the farm.

We live in a (mostly) benign environment, after all, where guidelines and suggestions are generally adequate to ensure domestic tranquility. 

The rules we do have, though, we take seriously.

In no particular order they are:

• Be kind
• Don't eat the animals
• Respect the environment
• Abortion on demand without apology

That's it. See how easy?

I'm not going to sit here and tell you Singing Whale Farm was founded on all these principles. The first three, for sure, but the fourth was added only recently, to reaffirm the fact that women are fully realized people whose bodies belong to them.

We're sad and angry that the last one had to be added at all. We mistakenly thought that in this day and age, in "the greatest country in the world," decisions about one's own body were fundamentally not subject to debate. 

In a country teeming with hard-right authoritarians and fanatic religious disciples, though, that belief was naive. 

For millions of women, the right to self-determination has suddenly evaporated. Changes to long-standing laws by corrupt political figures will effectively turn women into breeding livestock controlled by government.

Across multiple states, officials who believe their religion and status as legislators give them divine power, forced-birth laws have gone into effect. These statutes make felons of women and clinicians who believe laws like those are retrograde, immoral, and contrary to the standards of first-world healthcare.

We agree with the women and clinicians. So we're declaring Singing Whale Farm a sanctuary for people who prefer "farm rules".

We are fortunate to live in a state that more than 50 years ago literally led the nation—by being the first to decriminalize abortion. A state where the constitution protects the right to privacy, which includes the right to an abortion as part of comprehensive reproductive healthcare. 

Our farm will always be a place where a woman has the inalienable right to make decisions about her own body, and act on them. If you need help achieving that, we'll be here to assist, no questions asked.

If our government enacts laws to the contrary, we will continue to support women and clinicians by whatever means necessary.

Women will never be someone else's property here on the farm. 

We don't have a lot of rules...but that's for damn sure one of them.

Dear Abby

I'm seeking advice on how to deal with an armed, potentially drug-addled neighbor.

Background: the neighbor (and his pack of dogs) hunts feral pigs. He uses a rifle for this purpose, and isn't afraid to discharge it at dawn in an area where people, cattle, horses, and other domestic animals are well within range of a rifle.

I know he isn't afraid to do these things, because he did all of them this morning ON OUR PROPERTY.

Additional background: another neighbor, with whom we have a cordial relationship, has shared that hunter-neighbor used to be a capable tradesman, doing drywall, carpentry, and handiwork for a living. That was before the (unspecified) drugs, though, and before the local police allegedly had to come to his home and confiscate his firearms a couple years ago.

Rational, urban me says to contact the police, file whatever kind of complaint one files in situations like these, and let them handle it.

Recently no-longer-urban me believes:

1. The cops aren't likely to prioritize this situation since we live in a rural area where people do this sort of thing all the time and have done so for generations

2. Even if the cops take some kind of action, its effect would likely be temporary since guns are easy to come by and have more rights than people

3. Hunter-neighbor would likely deduce we were the source of any police intervention, since he saw me watching him traipse across our property

Full disclosure:

My knee-jerk reaction this morning was, "We need a gun."

Fuller disclosure:

1. I hate guns

2. In an armed confrontation I would 100% be the guy who hesitates and ends up on the ground bleeding out

3. Even writing "We need a gun" and "armed confrontation" gives me a rhetorical brain bleed

4. We're not getting a gun

Pacifist me thinks I need to have a conversation with hunter-neighbor and in a calm, neighborly way let him know we don't want him hunting on our property.

Rational me thinks a rational person wouldn't be out at dawn on other people's property under any circumstances, let alone firing a rifle. Rational me thinks that kind of behavior is irrational.

Therefore, rational me knows I would be incapable of having a calm, neighborly conversation with anyone who behaves in the erratic, antisocial manner described above.

SO, dear Abby, what do you think of all this? Is there any advice that accounts for all these variables and achieves a positive outcome in today's world? Or do we just have to put up with an irrational gunman occasionally wandering our property, putting us at risk of sudden morbidity and mortality?

Signed—

Often A Dull Roar, Never A Dull Moment

"Hoo would do such a thing?"

FFA — Future Farmers of America

FFS — (something else entirely)
***
Activity-specific training can be very effective.

You want to get in shape for basketball? You play basketball.

You want to run a trail race—you hike and run on trails.

You want to herd cattle on foot? Well...that's just silly. 

Seriously, no one wants to herd cattle on foot.

***

Background: our neighbor to the north has cows. In the literal, rather than the Bart Simpson sense.

The herd has grazed the slopes of Mauna Kea, including our little speck of it, for many years. And until recently, there were few limits to where they could go.

But then we moved in and started messing with them. 

We started by planting trees, each inside its own little protective fence. The cows tolerated those minor inconveniences—leaving the fencing intact (mostly) and the trees standing (mostly). 

This encouraged us! So we built a larger, more substantial enclosure for geese and chickens.

That too was accepted by the herd, which made note of the change and began walking around it (though we know they could walk right through it any time they choose to). So far they've chosen not to!

It was all going so well.

Recently the dogs and I returned from running errands in town. We were heading down the hill toward the house when I saw the cows, at least a dozen of them, inside the fenced acre around our house.

"No. No! NO, HELL NO!"

Note: yelling at cows from inside a truck is ineffective. Additionally, yelling at them from *outside* a truck is pretty much a waste of time as well.

I parked the truck near the house and pointedly did not let the dogs out. The last thing the situation needed was three dogs gleefully chasing cows around until getting gored or kicked or stepped on.

My first, hyperventilated attempt to herd the herd out the gate went poorly. Turns out waving one's arms and saying "Get the fuck out of here!!" is not tactically sound—though it did briefly cause some low-key havoc as cows peeled off this direction and that, ending up all around me instead of in front of me.

It occurred to me then that the neighbors to the south were probably looking down the hill at the situation and laughing hysterically. And who could blame them? Still, the thought made me self-conscious enough to stop flailing around and at least try to be smarter than the cows.

You know what I needed? A shepherd's stick. I mean, obviously.

Unfortunately, we don't own a shepherd's stick—but we did have the trunk of a long-defunct Christmas tree laying around. No, I don't know why.

I picked it up and started wielding it like someone who doesn't know what he's doing, but knows *something* must be done.

I opened the gate and, using the holiday-themed tree trunk, coaxed not one, not two, but three cows out the gate!

"This is gonna be easy!" I thought, 100% incorrectly.

The thing is, in order to coax additional cows out, the gate has to be open. But if the gate is open, the cows on the outside COME RIGHT BACK IN.

So much for plan B.

Fortunately, we have another gate. It's situated downhill from our lone, small outbuilding, and opens out, partway across a little gully. Which means, when it's open, cows wanting to get back into the yard have to go across the gully and up a slight rise. They can still get in but it takes time, during which I'm already encouraging another cow or two to leave.

Also, the presence of the shed effectively creates two downhill chutes to the gate, preventing the cows from peeling off and back into the yard. I now had A System™ in place, and it was just a matter of time before the cows were on the outside looking in.

That's when I glanced over at the other gate, just in time to see Bambi, the bull, force his way in between the gate and the post it was hooked to. Dude just decided he wanted in and viola! He was in...along with a couple of his lady friends.

In that moment, I became grouchy. I was tired of chasing cows around and definitely did not want to re-litigate cases I'd already won.

The cows expressed their appreciation for my concern by walking through flower beds, bulldozing banana trees, and pooping everywhere.

I brought The System™ to a halt, yelled at Bambi, and re-secured the gate top AND bottom. Later, I had to smack him on the butt when he parked himself halfway in/halfway out of the gate—for a second time. He was oblivious. Bambi is an imposing figure in the pasture, but he's not very bright.

TL/DR, eventually all the cows were repatriated to their homeland. The last one to go was Poppy, who is completely endearing and completely blind. Poppy startles easily, and telling her "We're going this way, Poppy!" is futile. Hard to believe, I know.

Nevertheless, she and I eventually found our way to the proper side of the fence, and she later ate sweet cob out of my hand. So I guess there were no hard feelings.

The entire exercise took nearly an hour, and it was exhausting.

So, we've decided to offer the experience as a cross-training workout to future guests!

No charge, bring poop-proof shoes.

***
Epilogue: our *other* neighbor, to the east, also has cows.

Recently several of them broke through *their* fence, causing a red alert from the neighbors to the north, who headed out on ATVs like a swarm of bees. Separating individuals from each herd via ATV was akin to herding cats—but eventually the riders got the job done on foot! 

We'll 100% be referring them to our instructional video, now in pre-production.

Heart to Hartley

"Sir, this is a tiki bar."

Hi, Dr. Hartley.

I'm fine, thanks. 

Well no, it's not entirely true, but it is kind of the socially expected answer, isn't it. Most people who ask aren't really looking for the truth.

Thanks, I appreciate that. Yes, it probably will be helpful if I answer your questions honestly. 

Wait...before we start, I'm curious how you're doing. Yeah, a lot of people need help right now. I don't know how you keep up. Who do psychiatrists talk to when all the psychiatrists are anxious and depressed?

Their bartender. Ha, of course. No, that was good.

Right—well, the past several weeks have been...challenging. And I've put off thinking about it to stay focused on things that needed to get done. Yes, we have talked about that. I know...blocking out something today can manifest itself later, and at really inconvenient times.

"Serenity now, insanity later." That line will always be funny, Dr. Hartley.

But yes, you're right, and I'm, you know, working on it.

Here's the thing, though—if I had taken the time then, the family project I was in the middle of would have failed—and I'd be even loonier than I am now. 

No, of course...we don't say loony. Can we say chronically frantic? Or frenzied? Or frenetic? Yes, I'm aware those all mean the same thing, and they'd all apply.

Dr. Hartley, our schedule literally left no room for error. If even one of the things on our list hadn't gotten done—when it was supposed to and in the order it was supposed to—the whole plan would have hit the floor.

Yes, I have heard that—"a plan built on the best-case scenario is no plan at all." But this time, honestly, it was best-case or nothing.

You know, before I met you, I didn't worry about things that were out of my control. I said, "I'll control the things I can control, and the other things will have to take care of themselves." 

Yes, I know that's denial—but it worked.

Did it really work? I don't know...maybe? Maybe not. But at the time, it sure felt like it did. I definitely had more peace of mind.

Nothing is ever really under our control. Yeah, that's funny-not-funny, isn't it? Yes, I'm familiar with the butterfly effect. It doesn't really make me feel any better. 

Well, because the butterfly effect is just another term for "chaos," and there's too much chaos loose in the world right now. I'm feeling the need to bring some order to our little corner of the pandemonium. Yeah, that's turning out to be harder than it used to be.

"Let's just do today." Yes, I like that idea. Let's do that.

The good news? It's that this part of our project is just about over. Definitely.

And that some people we had no expectations of came through in ways we never imagined. Really amazing ways. 

No, I'm not sure why they stepped up the way they did. I mean, if they had done nothing it would've been perfectly reasonable—and I wouldn't have thought any less of them. But that's not what they did. It was...something.

The bad news?

Well...some people we did have expectations of are just...no longer capable of living up to them. No...no, it's not their fault. It's mostly mine for being oblivious to it for too long.

No, it's okay. It's just that it's shocking how fast things can go upside down. Right? Yeah, it feels like we were incredibly lucky, under the circumstances.

I don't even want to think about it.

Kidding.

Anything else today? Give me a second...yeah. 

I guess it's that we can do hard things. I wish I personally didn't have to learn that over and over, but apparently I do.

"We've done it before, we can do it again." Yeah, you would think. 

I'm always more like, "Past performance is no guarantee of future results." Thanks for laughing at that, doc. 

Right! I don't take things for granted any more. It feels like it just invites attention from the irony gods. Yeah, they have a sick sense of humor.

Already? That went by fast—again. Thanks for listening, as always. Okay. Will do. 

You take care of yourself, too.

***

"Only a crisis makes me feel truly alive. When the crisis is every day, though, I feel numb and fatigued. And that’s what I was watching happen to the people around me."

— Eve Ettinger at bustle.com

Nine Days

The app told me I’d be riding to the airport with Theogene.

I briefly wondered how to pronounce Theogene, and if he went by Theo or Gene or something else entirely.

I looked out the door, half hearing the fraught conversation in the kitchen, half thinking Theogene was running late. He wasn’t, but my bags were there at my feet and I was ready to go.

“I love you,” my mom said, walking toward me, crying.

“I love you, too. I’ll be back soon.”

“When??” she asked, though I’d already told her several times since seven a.m.

“Nine days, mom.”

“When is that?”

“February ninth.”

Theogene pulled up in his little Nissan sedan, and my mom threw her arms around my neck. “I don’t want you to go,” she said, sobbing.

“I’ll be back soon.”

“When??”

My brother picked up my bags and waited by the door, while I eased away.

“Soon, mom. February ninth.”

“When is that?”

“Nine days,” I said quietly.

“I don’t know what to do or where to begin!”

“Mom, you don’t need to do anything, it’s all taken care of.”

“I feel like I should be doing something, but I don’t know what to do!”

“It’s okay, mom. See all these boxes? This is what we’ve been doing the past few days. You don’t need to do anything.”

My brother went out, and I caught the screen door just before it closed. Walking down the curving red sidewalk toward the car I glanced at the app again. “Theogene” it reminded me.

The trunk popped open and my brother hoisted my bags inside. He closed the lid and then pushed on it to be sure it was closed—and then I pushed on it to be sure it was closed. Because trunk lids always want you to think they’re closed when in fact they’re secretly still open.

We hugged, tight.

“I love you, man.”

“I love you, too.”

I reached for the door handle, but then my dad was there, looking for another hug.

“Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Then, the door handle, and the back seat, and the inside door handle, and quiet.

I fastened the seatbelt and caught Theogene’s eye in the rearview mirror.

“Good morning, Theogene,” I said, hoping I got it right.

“Good morning, Michael,” he said, with an accent that suggested he had been born somewhere far from where we were.

Without further ceremony, we rolled away from the house my parents bought fifty years ago and will be selling soon.

It wasn’t until just now, hours later and over an ocean, that it hit me—I didn’t look back. Or wave. Or…

I’ll be back soon, mom. Nine days. 

See? It’s written down right here.